Every harvest, the scarecrow in the high field turns on its pole. It points one straw arm at a house, and before the snow that family packs up and leaves. They never write back. This year Wren counted the empty homes: eleven gone. Last week the scarecrow turned. Its arm now points straight at Wren's own front door. That makes them the twelfth. This morning the crows stopped singing all at once, and the field went dead quiet. Wren stands at the fence, heart pounding, and decides not to wait for the snow.

Wren climbs the fence and walks straight up the hill toward the scarecrow. Up close it is taller than it looked. Burlap face, stitched smile, button eyes that seem to follow. Wren stops one step away and says out loud, "Why us? Why our house?" The straw arm twitches, then slowly bends, like it is about to point somewhere new.

The straw arm finishes bending and points down at the dirt between them. Wren kneels and digs with their hands. A few inches down, their fingers hit something hard and smooth. It's a small wooden box, old and damp. Wren pries it open and finds eleven tiny carved figures inside, each one shaped like a little person.

Wren counts the figures. Eleven. Each one matches a family that left. At the bottom of the box is space for a twelfth figure, half carved, with Wren's own face starting to appear in the wood. Wren understands: finish the carving and they're chosen. Snap the box shut and maybe the spell breaks.

Curious, Wren finishes the carving, just to see. The little wooden face becomes their own. The moment it's done, Wren can't move their legs. Straw begins pushing out through their sleeves. The last thing Wren sees as a person is the field, waiting, and the empty pole now standing open for them.